


Pieces

by AiElbereth



Category: Royal Ballet, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Eating Disorders, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Romance, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, but Elrond is perfection as usual, elves make lovely dancers, poor Lindir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 15:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11672091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AiElbereth/pseuds/AiElbereth
Summary: He can feel Elrond next to him, gliding in sync as they curve through their movements.  Somewhere in the midst of it, Lindir’s hand floats down and grasps Elrond’s own. Lindir knows Elrond’s eyes are on him as he leans far off-center, trusting him to hold him, and he has to remember not to look too deeply into his eyes lest he completely forget his choreography.  Elrond is a warm, solid body, full of sure strength and tenderness. As he sweeps him in a circle across the floor, Lindir marvels that they have come so far. In truth, Lindir had found nothing in life worth living for, until now. There is something so precious about placing his whole being in Elrond’s arms, allowing him to lift him blissfully high into the air without a hint of fear, spin him around, and then lower him softly back to earth.In which Lindir is a newly-employed dancer at the Royal Ballet, London, and Elrond becomes his...everything. But not before he first passes through fire and shadow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Laundry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529463) by [yeaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka). 



> The work was originally posted about a year ago, but I took it down because I had to deal with some things. Sorry for any disappointment! Now it's back for your enjoyment (slightly improved), and it will be updated fairly regularly. Please do not download or reproduce. I don't own the characters anything of the LotR/Hobbit universe, but I do own the story concept. I gain nothing but the pleasure of writing and the feedback of writing. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lindir, disillusioned, tries to hold the world far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: While this is intended to represent the ballet world as accurately as possible, it is not intended to make claims about the Royal Ballet or its artists in particular. 
> 
> It may be helpful to know the "ranks" in a Company from lowest to highest:  
> Artist  
> First Artist  
> Soloist  
> First Soloist  
> Principal Character Artist  
> Principal
> 
> Enjoy! Concrit is greatly appreciated! :)

Lindir stands in front of the wall-length mirrors at the fringe of the group. His body is dancing, moving, every muscle straining for perfection, but his mind is far from his work. In less than twenty minutes, he will leave his home at the Finnish National Ballet, and he doesn’t know what to feel. _Perhaps remorse_ , he thinks, then curses inwardly when he lands a double tour with less finesse than desirable.

_Perhaps relief._

A lifetime of belongings was packed away into two bags, and with them, he will be on a plane in a little over three hours bound for London. To a new start.

_Perhaps_.

The piano notes end; he moves to make room for the next group. They have reached the _grande allegro_ , the last part of the class. In some ways, the familiar routine, the repetition of his life, even, is comforting. It has been only two years—less than that, really—since he graduated from the Finnish National Ballet School and was subsequently—surprisingly—accepted as a _corps_ member of the Company. But ambivalence had been his primary sentiment. He simply went from being a gangly, awkward boy in a class of twenty to a gangly, awkward twenty-something in a _corps_ of strangers.

At Lindir’s most honest moments, he feels adrift in a sea of solitude. There has never been someone to share his moments of joy with, when at fourteen, he won the silver medal at a regional competition, or when, high on adrenaline and full of elation, he finished his first performance with the company. Nor has there ever been someone to _hold_ him in the dark moments, when demons begin clawing at his mind, when he reaches for—

The strident voice of the ballet master sounds, outlining the next combination, and he forces his mind away from that _place_.

In a short while, the class has finished. He bids farewell to several acquaintances, those who actually know he is leaving them. They don’t know _why_. And there are, in truth, so many reasons. All in all, the goodbyes are a noncommittal, casual affair, and he cleans up and exits the building just as he does any other day, except that it’s hours earlier and he’s toting two suitcases. Maybe it was sentiment, more likely it was unwillingness to let his body go for too long without some sort of exertion, but he had decided to attend his daily class one last time. Now, it is over, what was once his life is over, and he hails a cab, enters the airport, and boards a plane to take him away.

He hadn’t been living, really, anyway. In truth, he is filled with emptiness. He longs for life, for love. It’s only when he’s dancing that he truly _feels_.

 

He declines the horrid plane food, rubs his twinging left knee, and settles back to think. It is past overdue for an evaluation of where his life has gotten to. Two months ago, after an exhausting performance, he blearily opened his inbox to find an e-mail. He had to blink and double check several times to confirm that the sender was, indeed, Kevin O’Hare, artistic director of the Royal Ballet in London, England. In short, the letter outlined that the Royal Ballet’s Artistic Associate, Christopher Wheeldon, had been visiting Finland earlier that week. Having seeing the _corps_ perform—specifically, having seen _him_ perform—he had been impressed. They were offering him a job on the spot, as a Soloist, no less. Lindir would have been insane to refuse.

And it isn’t as if he has anything to lose.

-

It’s dark and raining when he steps out of the airport. After hailing a cab, he gives the driver an address, praying what he’s trying to say will get through. The language change isn’t the problem—he'd learned to speak English as well as any native—it’s just that, well, London is so vast. If truth be told, it’s a bit staggering to Lindir, and he’s afraid he will never decipher this city made of cities. But he arrives in front of a building recognizable to him from the photos, pays the cabbie, and sets about finding the number corresponding to his apartment. In a rare burst of foresight, he had made the arrangements beforehand.

As he steps inside, fumbling for the light, he surveys the place. It’s quite small, and very outdated, but mostly clean. Affordable. And it’s so very expensive to live here. So many things are different, honestly. Suddenly exhausted, he drops his bags right there on the floor of the tiny kitchen and collapses on the narrow bed. It’s late Friday night; he has tomorrow to settle in, and on Sunday, he will get acquainted with Covent Garden and everything it entails. The procedures are a bit unconventional since it is off-season for new arrivals, but they wanted to have Lindir right then, to have time to begin work on a new show. In truth, Lindir doesn’t know what Wheeldon saw in him, but he’s rather glad to be here.

  
It’s his last thought before he drifts off into darkness.

-

A beam of weak sunlight and familiar hunger pangs wake Lindir. Sitting up, his voice echoes his body’s groan of protest. It’s only shortly before six in morning, much earlier than he considers appropriate, but his body is still trained for Finnish time, which is two hours ahead. And once he’s awake, there is no falling back to sleep, so he heaves himself up to begin setting his life in order. Not long into his unpacking, though, his stomach twists in a series of violent cramps and irritably reminds him that he didn’t eat the night before and had only tea for lunch. He sighs and gathers his things to go. Recalling a supermarket from previous investigation, he timidly steps out of the apartment complex out onto the already absurdly busy street.

He had been extremely, unexpectedly fortunate to find a place within walking distance of Covent Garden. Tucked in an out-of-the-way alley, the two room apartment echoed none of the grandeur or charm of the buildings surrounding it, but for him, it works out rather well. Carefully, he takes note of the turns and street names as he walks. The last thing he wants is to get lost in this metropolis. Passing unfamiliar buildings hosting unfamiliar shops, weaving through so many strangers, he arrives before Tesco and heaves a sigh at the sight. Suddenly, he feels very alone.

Grabbing a basket, Lindir makes his way through the store. Hardly ever does he feel… _peaceful_ when faced with so much food. It’s ridiculous, pathetic, really, but he can’t help but feel unsettled, at war, deep inside. He shudders to see the contents of some prepackaged items labelled as food. Mechanically, he collects a tub of plain Greek yogurt, eggs, oatmeal, dry lentils, tea (of course), several cans of tuna, blueberries (though he bites his lip at the price), two yams, and salad ingredients, and yes, he will eat everything.

_No_.

He must.

He can’t.

_Please_.

After this, he finds his steps returning to the very aisle he had been avoiding. Cocoa, coconut oil, cocoa butter. Perhaps a bit of vanilla, if he is feeling generous. And a hint of stevia. All he needs to make dark, _dark_ chocolate, to cover his blueberries. The only things he’s unable to deny that delights him. It leaves a bittersweet sensation in both his mouth and heart.

His insidious palate.

He reaches for the cocoa, but his fingers curl back in unwillingness. Halfway away from the tin, he vacillates, and he stands there for a time, feeling--

He doesn't go there.

Then, behind him, he hears a low throat clear softly. Whirling around and away, he flushes with embarrassment to be found so weak, but when he looks up, he blushes deeper for an entirely different reason. The patiently waiting figure is _stunning_ , tall and lithe, dark haired and dark eyed, and Lindir is oddly struck by how he carries himself with a sort of kind nobility. Powerful, yet gentle.

"If I may," and his voice is as deep as what is hidden behind his eyes.

The captivating stranger reaches past Lindir to pluck a bag of nuts off the shelf, and Lindir catches a breath of something earthy, spicy, almost Chai-ish, with overtones of bergamot and fresh rain. It's intoxicating.

The man is about to turn and continue his shopping, but then he pauses, and Lindir's breath catches.

"You should go for the chocolate." There is a hint of a lovely smile, and then he's walking away. Lindir blinks once and then decides to obey.

And, as he soon after makes his way back to his empty apartment, Lindir feels a bit wobbly, but his heart and mind are strangely at peace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lindir finds old friends and new.

The following morning, after a routine of light stretching and an intense floor workout (well, as much as he could, given the square footage of his rooms), Lindir stands at precisely 10:30 am before the imposing Opera House. After glancing around a bit, he finds the entrance marked “Stage Door” and tentatively proceeds through it. Inside the entryway it is simple, even a little cluttered, but there’s no one in it, besides a guard a little ways down who eyes him up. He had been told that there would be someone to meet him, but there isn’t, so he stands awkwardly, sucking in the corner of his lips in uncertainty.

Shortly, though, a figure comes bounding through the glass door and arrives in a burst of honey-orange hair. He's dressed for a dance class, in striped warmers, hair pulled back, and Lindir feels slightly out of place in his trousers and dress shirt.

“Hello! Sorry I’m late,” he says, a bit breathless. “Lindir, right? I’m Meludir.” He gives Lindir a wide, disarming smile. “I hope you weren’t waiting terribly long.”

Lindir shakes his head, a bit taken aback by his cheerfulness. Thus far, no one in London has so much as glanced at him. Meludir swipes a card and holds the glass door open for Lindir, then leads him up a staircase. “I have a packet for you upstairs. Your keycard is in it, as well as the code to the men’s changing rooms, a company shirt, things like that. And there's a map of this place. It can be so confusing.”

He continues talking, but not at all obnoxiously. " I'm a First Artist here. Legolas told me you're coming on as a Soloist, from Finland too? And brought in by Wheeldon? That's fantastic, I'm really happy for you."

Lindir is warmed by his charming demeanor and his words spoken with utter sincerity. "Thank you, I'm rather excited myself. I can hardly believe it's real." He gives him a small smile in return.

Lindir is soon to learn that “confusing” is a gross understatement. Up and down and all around Meludir leads him, weaving through narrow and wide hallways to each of the six elegant studios, past the large red board where daily rehearsal schedules are posted, to the changing rooms and further, until Lindir’s head is a jumbled mess. They bypass some of the workshops for sets and such, but he takes a peek at the stage (and subsequently feels extremely _small_ ) and they pass through the dressing rooms and costume rooms to halt before a small space full of shoes, shoes, and more shoes of every size and type.

“Here we keep all of our shoes, everyone’s in Company.” Meludir steps forward to run a finger along a label beneath one of the many cubbies full of stacked pointe shoes, ballet flats, even some tap shoes. “This one is Sarah Lamb’s.” Lindir links the name to a photo of the blond-haired principle he had seen in video clips. “And Natalia Osipova’s, Ed Watson’s, Thranduil Oropherion’s. All the greats.” Meludir has a slightly reverent look on his face as he proceeds deeper into the tiny, L-shaped room. “There’s Thiago Soares’s. And Lauren Cuthbertson’s, Yuhui Choe’s, Arwen Undomiel’s, Haldir Marchwarden’s, Stephen McRae’s, Marianela Nunez’s, Elrond Peredhel’s, Legolas Greenleaf’s.” The slight, ginger-haired dancer points to another one. “And here’s mine.” He give a little laugh.

Right then, Lindir falls a little bit in love with that room. He decided he likes the way each dancer is held equal, represented by identical cubbies that hold their shoes, something that everyone must share, something that defines each’s ability to make music, feelings, words, come alive. Yet each frame holds within a completely unique type or combination of shoes—each dancer is completely individual inside.

Lindir blinks. Now he’s waxing poetic. His nails dig into his arm in self-deprecation but Meludir doesn’t catch it for he’s on his knees, searching. “Ah, here it is. Yours.”

Several cubes up from the floor he finds one with his name. It's already filled with several pairs of shoes and Lindir feels a little tingle go down his spine to see it. "There's one for me, already?"

"Of course. You're Royal Ballet material now," he says kindly. "See if they have the size and type right."

There's flats of leather and canvas in the standard ballet pink, as well as black ones, nude ones, and one pair of white. Lindir takes several and examines them. "This is wonderful," he says, and means it. "Really wonderful." But then, he notices something missing. "Does the.... Are pointe shoes provided for male dancers?"

Meludir turns to look at him, surprise written across his features. "Have you trained in pointe?"

Lindir colors a little. "Well, I'm not very good, not by a long shot, but I have done a few years’ worth."

"Fascinating," Meludir says. "In a good way," he hastens to add. "I only know of one other male here who dances on pointe, and he rarely does so. I'm sure you can talk to Jane--she's our ballet shoe manager--and get it worked out." Meludir turns to leave the shoe room, looking back and saying, "I'm really, really happy that you're joining. I hope you can find a sort of home here."

Meludir's comment is sincere, offhand, but it strikes a chord inside Lindir. He mulls over it as they continue. Perhaps, without knowing it, the lighthearted elf defined exactly what he is lacking, a place to _belong_ , to be valued, unconditionally. With a jolt of melancholy, he realizes he wouldn’t even recognize such a thing, for he has never had it before.

Lindir is shaken from his thoughts as Meludir halts before another door. "This is the physio area and Mason healthcare suite. It was just added recently, and we’re absolutely delighted to have it." He opens the door and Lindir can see quite a few dancers there, on various machines, with coaches, or simply stretching. "Sunday is our day off,” Meludir explains, “but many of us come in anyway to take class or have a workout to keep in shape. It’s why most of the studios are so empty and this place so full. It’s amazing to see what one day off can do to you.”

Lindir nods. He knows.

They stand and watch the activity around them for a few moments. Everyone is extremely hard at work, but the atmosphere is light, and the murmur of easy conversations adds a warm energy to the rooms. One of the dancers, tall, with wavy blond hair, waves at them as he passes. "That's Glorfindel, one of our Principals. He's been here for years." Lindir watches as he approaches another with dark hair and pale skin, slightly shorter than average, but no less fit. Glorfindel gives him a peck on the lips. "And that's Erestor, his partner. They're lovely together." Meludir glances at them again, a bit wistfully, and suddenly Lindir feels as if he might have found a kindred spirit.

The rest of the tour finishes shortly, without further incident, and both he and Meludir end up returning to the physio rooms. They part on friendly terms, Meludir to a pilates class, and Lindir to have his knee adjusted. Just walking around the Opera House has made it ache.

Three years ago, he had been in an informal rehearsal with another male dancer, just the two of them, reviewing some choreography. But along the course of it, fhe other had compelled him to try a new lift, convinced to fill in the part of the girl. The first few tries were successful and it looked lovely, but the fourth time, in one terrible moment, his partner dropped him, and Lindir had landed on the floor in a sickening heap, his left knee taking most of the impact. It was never properly treated, nor properly healed, and it still gives him trouble daily.

Pausing outside the door, he feels a bit unsure about using their facilities already, since he's only just been initiated today. Doubt rises in his mind. But it's paining him quite a lot and he wants to be at his best for his first official day tomorrow, so he huffs resolutely and enters.

He starts in shock, though, when one of the physiotherapists turns.

It's the intriguing man he met at Tesco.

Lindir wants to melt into the floor, from both the burn of his blush and the heat of the other's _lordliness_. The upturn of the dark haired man's lips is warm, though, and he beckons him in.

"Hello again. I hadn't realized you work here."

"Oh, I--I just came on this week, actually."

"Indeed? Welcome then. I'm Elrond. I work here whenever I have a little extra time on my hands."

The name seems familiar to Lindir, but he can't quite place it. "I'm Lindir."

"What can I help you with then, Lindir?" When-- _Elrond's_ \--rich, soft voice gives life to his name, he shivers inside.

"My knee is...well, it's a mess, really. A lift gone wrong a few years ago." Lindir's sure he's as red as pomegranate.

"May I have a look?"

"Oh, of course." Lindir follows him to a nearby massage table and sheds his bottoms easily, then suddenly is self-conscious. He had thought his years of dance--shared dressing rooms, quick changes, and changing rooms--had rid him of all shyness, but in the face of Elrond's overwhelming stunningness, he feels...inadequate.

The physiotherapist says nothing though, and pats the table. Lindir hops easily up onto it. Elrond comes closer and Lindir catches a whiff of that heady _scent_. With strong fingers, he probes Lindir's aching joint, face a mask of thought. Several minutes pass before those dark, piercing eyes meet Lindir's own. "You're right. It is pretty mangled. The knee cap might have been dislocated, or even slightly fractured. And it didn't," he applies more pressure, "mend correctly, I think, as it seems it had not been tended as it should have been." He glances back up at Lindir in concern. "Did they not care for you?"

Lindir’s eyes are fixed somewhere on his thigh. "I'd...rather not go into the details." It hadn't been a bright time in Lindir's life.

Elrond makes a noise of unobtrusive understanding. "I'll do some work on it today, but you will probably need to come back at least every other day for a while to have it re-adjusted." He moves to the surrounding area first, kneading the _peroneus longus, vastus lateralis, vastus medialis, bicep femoris_. Lindir names the muscles to distract himself from the painful-pleasant sensations. He can feel them unwinding under Elrond's skillful hands. For the first time in days, perhaps even weeks, he relaxes. Oddly, Elrond makes him feel _safe_.

Once Elrond has gotten rid of any tension around his knee, he focuses on the joint itself. To Lindir's hands, it is a bony, knobby thing, but Elrond's slim fingers manage to slip in between his bones to work at the tendons beneath. "On top of it all, you seem to have strained it, poor dear." Elrond seems genuinely sympathetic. "This will probably not be pleasant," he warns, then does something around his kneecap that makes Lindir tense and his eyes sting. But Elrond continues his ministrations, carefully, firmly, yet gently. Through the white pain, Lindir feels things deep within loosen, sliding back into place, yet he can't stop the short hiss from escaping. Elrond finishes expediently, then gives it a last soothing rub. Straightening, he turns his strikingly wise gaze to Lindir.

"I'm sorry for you pain."

Lindir gives him a faint smile, but then he inwardly scoffs at his addled heart as it takes Elrond's kind words to mean more than just the hurt of his knee. Was he so _desperate_?

Elrond turns to retrieve something and doesn't see the way Lindir's shoulders sag slightly and his jaw clenches. "I think it would be best to wrap it as well, then you should rest it completely for the rest of today." Elrond begins to wrap the flesh coloured tape deftly in place around his knee. "I would rather you not even walk at all today and keep from dancing the rest of the week, but unfortunately both those things are inevitable." He gives Lindir a smile, and at the light curve of his lips, Lindir's world brightens a little.

After he is done, he fetches an ice pack and gives it to Lindir. "If you have nothing else to do today, stay here for a bit longer and alternate using ice and heat, each for twenty minutes." He hesitates, then says, "I will keep you company, if you would like."

Lindir gratefully accepts the ice and even more so the invitation. It is an easy silence that they sit in, and he is glad Elrond understands that he does not feel the need to fill it with frivolous words. Unexpectedly, though, he is the one to break it, telling him of Finland--just a bare overview--but it’s more than he has ever done in the past years. They make it halfway into the first round of heat before another dancer comes in and calls for Elrond's attention.

Ruefully, he stands and says, "You should come again within the next few days so I can take a look at your knee again." Then, he seems to hold back from saying something more, and merely tilts his head in an uninterpretable manner, and there's the same soft smile again. "I will look forward to seeing you again, Lindir."

Lindir watches him go and what is left are bittersweet _feelings_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your encouraging and kind comments!! I'm so glad you are enjoying this fic!
> 
>  
> 
> In this chapter, Meludir refers to "White Lodge" which is the Royal Ballet's own training program for school-aged dancers who want to join the company.

For the rest of that day, once the heat and ice were gone, Lindir's knee aches and pops and protests at the adjustments made. For once, Lindir goes back to his rooms and actually takes care of himself, resting and icing and rubbing it. He's frustrated, though. His own weakness irks him more than the pain. But the memory of a certain physiotherapist, of Elrond, almost makes it worthwhile. He will go to see him again tomorrow.

That night, he plucks idly at his kantele, the Finnish harp he'd treasured as a child, and for once, he wants the next day to come.

  
-

When his second morning in London dawns, he heaves himself out of bed and gingerly stands, but there's no pain in his knee. Even as he prepares for his first actual day at the Royal Ballet, there is not twinging, no aching, no white pain. Not even as he navigates the busy streets, passes through the stage door, and climbs the stairs does it so much as pop, and he decides he likes Elrond even more.

The changing rooms are mostly empty when he enters, since he has arrived early, wanting to have plenty of time in case of anything. He doesn't recognize any of the dancers present. Hastily pulling on tight black leggings, he turns and scrutinizes his partially bared form in the mirror, lips thinned. He stands and stares for a time, before his gaze falls to the ground and he turns away, pulling on a shirt. He is startled from his thoughts when someone calls his name.

"Lindir!" It's Meludir, having just emerged from a bathroom stall.

"Hello again." Lindir waves shyly.

"I'm glad to have caught you. I wanted to ask if you would like to come with me to daily class so you wouldn't be completely alone. I'm going to Olga Evreinoff's today, but we can pick another one if you would rather."

"No, that's fine. Thank you for thinking of me. I must admit this...whole thing is rather confusing." His life had sort of quietly been uprooted and nobody, including himself sometimes, seemed to think much of it.

Meludir smiles sympathetically. “That’s what I thought when I joined the Ballet three years ago. I was a White Lodge student all the way through, but it was still surreal.” He grabs his water bottle and leads the way out towards the studio. “ I think you will like Mistress Olga’s class. She is very demanding, but she truly cares for the dancers.”

Lindir nods. 

Meludir leans in and a tad cautiously asks, “Do you—do you have a favorite part of class, something that is your forte?” Immediately after, he hastens to add, “You don’t have to answer—some people are touchy about that, as if they think I could actually try to take whatever role they’re after.” He snorts at himself and then covers his face. “Sorry. Sorry, I should just shut it now.”

Lindir smiles at his…friend. “I suppose I like leaps the best.” He blushes. “People like my legs.” Objectively, he can’t deny that they are the epitome of balletic perfection, limber and impossibly long.

“Yep, I could see why. Turns have always been better for me. The fact that I'm shorter helps with that, I think.” Lindir doesn’t think he’s really that short, close to average height, but then another dancer silently glides by them, with an alluringly powerful figure and silver-blonde hair. And he is _tall. More_ than that. Untouchably magnetic.

Meludir slows a bit and watches the otherworldly figure disappear around a corner. “That’s Thranduil.” At his tone, Lindir glances at him and sees his wide, slightly glazed eyes. “I take it that you are a…fan?” Meludir nods, not looking at him. “I would like to be…more,” he whispers softly, almost to himself. At this, Lindir hesitates and a tad awkwardly reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "Sometimes it’s--better--to be solitary. I know from experience."

Meludir now turns and looks up at him in surprise. Lindir is actually surprised at himself. For a few moments, the ginger dancer seems to be interpreting his face, then he nods slightly.

"Yes. Maybe so."

 

Dancers are warming up as they arrive at the Ashton Studio. Lindir recognizes some from the day before, but Erestor and Glorfindel are the only two whose names he can recall. They all choose a spot at the barre and Lindir loosens up in preparation for the class.

Olga Evreinoff is a surprisingly shorter woman with jaw-length silver hair, a wonderfully pleasant and passionate face, and an accent that is delightfully familiar to Lindir. Her no-nonsense, yet caring manner instantly puts him at ease. As she outlines the first exercise and the pianist begins, the familiar language washes over Lindir. He feels the stretch and effort of his muscles and it soothes his soul.

They make it through _ronde de jambes_ on one side and halfway through the combination on the left before she strolls by, examining his form, then looks up at his face.

"Who are you?" she asks bluntly. ("That's just how she is," Meudir will later tell him.) Lindir is a bit startled by the question and he forgets to change his arms as his leg floats up behind him.

"Lindir, ma'am." She doesn't say anything, still watching him, so he further clarifies. "Um, Christopher Wheeldon...commissioned...me?" Silently glancing over him once more, she nods once--"Very good"--and moves on, leaving Lindir a little puzzled.

 

The rest of the class passes without further incident. When the barres are taken away and they transition to center exercises,, Lindir stays in the back, trying to avoid the notice of the others, who he now feels are watching him. It's silly, he thinks as he watches an African male in the group before him, perfection in motion, for no one can possibly dance _that_ well while scrutinizing someone else. But such a feeling is an old companion by now.

It's always hard coming into a new place. The subtle dynamics of the class, the style, the music, the people, always changed _just_ that much,and this had a way of throwing him off. He does his best, but still feels woefully inadequate. After _grande allegro_ , though, Meludir compliments him on his leaps and tells him that Haldir Marchwarden and Zenaida Yanowsky were eyeing him with admiration, which makes his eyes dart away and his face flush.

He feels the familiar tingle of post-class adrenaline as he exits the studio. But this soon is dashed to pieces when he walks up to the master schedule of everyone's rehearsals and sees his name _nowhere_ on the list. He points it out to Meludir, who looks terribly befuddled and concerned, but there's nothing the ginger can do, for he must get to his own rehearsal.

"I'm so sorry," he says contritely, as if it’s his own fault. "I thought Mr. Wheeldon was flying back to London yesterday. I don't know why you aren't scheduled and I don't know who to ask because I've never had problems with it before. I'm really, really sorry." With a last torn glance, Meludir rushes off to his assigned studio, and Lindir is alone again. He watches other dancers hurry past, focused on their own agendas, until the halls still.

Lindir absolutely loathes when the unpredictable ruins his carefully-constructed day, but he sucks up a breath and then exhales, loud in the now near-silence. Valiantly trying to pull himself together, he stands and finds his steps leading him back towards the Mason suite, to the physiotherapists' area. Subconsciously, he knows his mind is murmuring “ _Elrond_.”

When he opens the door, though, there are no dark, kind eyes to greet him. He finds he's bitterly disappointed, but then he chides himself. Elrond was not...he is so much _more_ than whatever Lindir thinks he is. With his skill in healing, Elrond surely has better things to do than sit with lonely, broken dancers. But his knee is truly aching dully again after that class, so another therapist comes and works on it for him. She pokes and prods and pulls and pushes ruthlessly, so unlike Elrond's gentle manner, but it does the trick. While Lindir silently suffers, he asks after Christopher Wheeldon's whereabouts, but she shakes her head and shrugs. Handing him ice, she gives him some exercises and stretches to do later, then he is left with only his thoughts. _Again_.

After that, he undertakes a light upper body workout with weights he obviously doesn't have at his bedsit, and by that time, he realizes, the rest of the dancers will be breaking for an hour for lunch. Meandering back into the main area, he sits alone and and picks at his food since he feels he hasn't done all that much physically today. Once again, though, Meludir, bounding up to him, startles him out of his melancholy.

"Hi, Lindir! I did some asking around for you and found out that Mr. Wheeldon's flight was delayed, so he only just arrived early this morning. He's in a meeting right now, but after our break, you and I and some others have rehearsal in the MacMillan Studio."

Lindir looks up at him, relief and gratitude filling his face. "Oh, thank you Meludir. I was just, sort of...feeling a bit lost this morning."

Meludir gives him his customary wide smile and plops down next to him, digging into his own lunch. “Oh, I’m famished! I am really excited for you. I think the rehearsal with Wheeldon this afternoon is actually an introductory meeting for his newest creation. And I heard rumours that you’ve been cast alongside many of our Principals! And Wheeldon always has the most wonderful ideas, Though I don’t even know what this theme or story will be.”

Lindir smiles at his enthusiasm. As for himself--he is not a little nervous to be placed in such a role, but must admit he is a tad curious to see what all the anticipation is about. He won’t consider the option of being excited for he doesn't want to face disappointment yet again.

“What did you think of your first class?” Meludir asks, switching subjects.

“It was…different. But good. Sometimes it seems wrong that I am dancing with people like--like those who were there today.”

Meludir nods. “I know what you mean. I can only dream of becoming as good as, say, Edward Watson or Thranduil. In the beginning, every time I was in the same class with someone like that, I was terrified.” He gives an embarrassed little giggle. “But then Legolas pulled me aside and gave me a little shake. He said, ‘You can’t dance your fullest while wishing you’d turned out to be someone else. You’ve got to accept who you are and what made you that way, let it go, and then work at being the best that you can be.’” Meludir shrugs slightly. “I’m still just a First Artist, but now I’m okay with that, you know?”

Lindir gives him a weak smile, happy that Meludir, at least, has found peace. He _tries_.

  
A little while later, it is with a little trepidation that he enters the MacMillan Studio. Several people are already present, the pianist, a woman, who stands by the brown-blonde hair and fit form of another whom Lindir assumes to be Christopher Wheeldon. But it’s the unmistakeable figure talking with Wheeldon that steals Lindir’s breath away and weakens his knees.

_Elrond_.

Lindir hadn’t even realized he was a dancer, but just now he recalls Meludir mentioning his name in the shoe room. It comes back to him in a flash.

_Elrond Peredhel._

All look up as he cringes when the door shuts loudly behind him. “Hello!” the other male calls. As Lindir approaches the group, he offers his hand. “Lindir, if I remember correctly? I’m Christopher Wheeldon.”

“It’s an honour to meet you, sir.”

At Lindir’s tone, Wheeldon smiles. Lindir decides he likes the way the faint lines around the corners of his eyes deepen, as if he’s smiled millions of times before.

“And this is Elrond Peredhel, Royal Ballet Principal.”

Lindir squirms and blushes and thinks he stares into the dancer’s eyes a few seconds too long. “We’ve met before, actually,” he manages to get out.

“Oh, well that’s a step in the perfect direction.” Wheeldon then turns and introduces the pianist, Thorin Oakenshield, and the woman, Jaqueline, his assistant. Lindir doesn’t catch her surname and he couldn’t care less, for his head is reeling with this new development. Elrond, kind, beautiful, wise, perfect _Elrond_ …to work with him. He barely dares to hope.

The Principal gives him a small smile and Lindir feels his chest simultaneously fill and constrict with giddiness.

Mr. Wheeldon's voice interrupts his trance. “Alright, now that introductions are out of the way, let's get right into it. For the first fifteen minutes or so, I just have you two because I wanted to get a feel for how your individual styles interact--the others will be coming a bit later. In this new show, there will be several pivotal pas de deuxs with you both so it's vital that you have good chemistry. Otherwise....well, it just can’t be manufactured for this. I was hoping that I could see a little bit of the Sugar Plum pas de deux, which both of you should be familiar with.”

Lindir is a little confused. Yes, that particular dance is a classic that every aspiring student learns at some point, but it was for a male and a female dancer, though he knew both parts by heart. He can tell Elrond is a little puzzled by this too, which oddly makes him feel better.

“Lindir, if you wouldn’t mind taking the role of the fairy, Elrond will be the prince. I know this is really different, but “different” is going to be the definition of this new production, I think. It might be a bit weird, but I will explain everything in a minute and it will all make sense, I promise.”

With a hesitant second’s delay, they take up their respective positions for the dance. Wheeldon cues the pianist and as the intro plays, he calls out, “It’s alright if you’re a bit rusty or if you learned a different variation. Just...roll with it.

Lindir catches a glimpse of the choreographer settling back into his chair with an attentive look on his face before he is remarkably pulled into the dance. At first, it’s a bit rough as his brain struggles to keep up with the flow of the music and the steps. On a deeper level, it’s difficult as two near-strangers endeavor to connect in such a way. But soon, Lindir stops thinking and instinct, _feeling_ , takes over. Dimly, he thinks it must be Elrond.

The female part is actually quite pleasant to play. Once he stops trying and starts trusting, taking his cues and playing off of Elrond, losing himself in the depths of his eyes and the closeness of his body, something _lovely_ happens. For once, his soul, next to Elrond, is weightless and he wants it to go on forever.

After several more minutes, the piano music ends, and they cease moving. Elrond’s hands are holding Lindir’s waist and he can barely breathe. The spell is broken when Wheeldon stands and speaks.

“That was very, very nice.” He sighs. “ I think this will actually work.” Lindir thinks it quite a bit more than “very, very, nice.” That was utopia. He had never _danced_ until that moment. Is it Lindir’s desperate imagination, or do Elrond’s hands linger a second before they separate?

Wheeldon comes up to them, nodding decisively. “Excellent, guys. Very good.” He checks his watch. “The rest should be arriving five minutes or so, but I’ll give you a little preview of what I have in mind.” Then he suddenly has a thought. “Lindir.”

“Yes sir?”

“I heard a rumour that you do pointe. I think Jane mentioned that Meludir said that you said you do.”

“Yes, that’s correct sir. Nothing very spectacular, though.”

“Hmm. Good. And you can just call me Chris, no need for that.” He thoughtful expression breaks into a smile, which makes a little of Lindir’s tension dissipate. It mounts again, though, when the door to the studio opens and a group of six dancers stroll in. Lindir actually knows who some of them are--but this is because they have reached _world_ renown. Thranduil Oropherion, for one, is among them, as well as the Russian Natalia Osipova, Argentine Marianela Nunez, and English Edward Watson, and Erestor and Glorfindel, who wave at Elrond as they approach.

He sucks in a strained breath. _What_ _am I doing here?_

“Hello guys,” Wheeldon--Chris--says. “You can actually just have a seat until everyone else arrives.” As dancers are wont to do, they plop down on the grey marley floor in various splits or “butterfly” stretches. Elrond joins them, then beckons Lindir over to do the same. The group continues their conversation, but Lindir is silent, a little bit overwhelmed by everything.

There is a light touch on his right arm. “How is your knee holding up?” Elrond asks him.

“Oh, it’s quite a lot better, thank you.” For some reason, Lindir feels his neck flush and there a beat of silence. “I didn’t realize you were a dancer yesterday, let alone a Principal.” This beautiful, dark-haired character was forever evolving.

“Not to worry. It’s only a title.” Elrond shakes his head a tad dismissively. “And yes, I do have some interest in working with the human body. It’s sort of a side hobby,” Elrond concedes. Lindir can’t seem to find anything to say, so Elrond speaks again, with his customary perceptiveness.

“This,” he gestures to himself and around the room, “doesn’t change anything. Don’t doubt who you are because of anyone. See this as a chance for greatness, not....belittlement.” Somehow, Elrond always _knew_. Lindir’s breath catches again as the Principal hesitates, then give his hand a gentle squeeze. “It is in you.”

Lindir gives him a small smile.

When he tears his eyes away from Elrond at last, he’s shocked to find the room filled with at least thirty people. As he looks around and catches sight of Meludir’s honey-colored head, he is glad. In front of them, Chris does a quick head count.

“Alright everyone.I think everyone’s here.” Jacquline, his assistant, double checks and confirms. “So. I’m extremely glad that all of you can be here for this. I’m really excited for what we have in store. This ballet is going to be completely groundbreaking stuff. Like Romeo and Juliet, it's a story ballet, but instead of being historical or folklore-ish, I wanted it to be really...solid, because of the message. So absolutely no fairies or swans.”  
  
That draws a laugh.

“Because,” Chris continues, “the topic of this ballet is on human trafficking. Human sex trafficking to be exact.” At this the room grows quiet. This is a very different topic.

“Don't worry, in the months I've been gone I haven't turned into a civil rights fanatic. But I think,” he pauses, “one person’s story,” his eyes slide to Lindir, “in this sort of…atmosphere will make for…beauty,” he finishes thoughtfully. “Yours will not be easy roles to play. I want you take everything you ever thought you knew about the world of dance, about the world as a whole, and shut it away in a closet for a time. I need blank slates.

“I'm sort of breaking all the rules. Although it will begin in a rural Ukraine, most of it takes place in the present day, right here in the UK. And there will be a large cast, about eighteen dancers, but a rather minimal main melody. I've been working with Thorin, our maestro, on the score.

“So,” he claps his hands together once, “the basic storyline is as follows: Vasyklo is a sixteen or seventeen year old who lives with just his father in a Ukrainian village. During a summer festival, which will be our opening scene, two foreigners will arrive and essentially trick the drunk father, Yure, into selling his son. (Will be broken in) A little while later, we will find him at a high-end brothel in east London. There, Vasyklo will stay and have various…experiences. Be prepared for some horrid things. The idea is to explore whether light can actually live in the darkest of places. Then, Vasyklo will be tremendously rescued by a “client,” Hugo, after two years of enslavement. The journey doesn't end after that, though, and then question will remain as to whether he can learn to love again.”

The room is silent. Lindir's face is somber. This ballet might just hit too close to home.

“I have the cast list drawn up already. Your director wants to kill me because I asked for almost every Principal to be involved in this.” Jacqueline hands him a clipboard and he scans it for a moment before speaking.

“For the first cast: Vasyklo will be played by Lindir. Hugo will be played by Elrond Peredhel. Hadeon, the “Master” of the slave house will be played by Edward Watson--sorry Ed. You get be be a bad guy again. Your name actually means “Destroyer” in Ukrainian. Nina will be the “Mistress” of the house, played by Zenaida Yanowski. Sorry to you too, Zen. Yure, Vasyklo’s father, will be played by Frederico Bonelli.”

At this first listing, Lindir's heart stops for a moment. He was going to play the lead? His anxiety level climbed about six notches. He couldn't, not in front of--in place of--all these other perfect dancers. Then, Elrond catches his eye and gives him a small, proud, smile. “I look forward to dancing with you,” he leans over and whispers, and Lindir's heart stops again for a completely different reason.

Then he realizes Chris is still speaking. “Moving on to the slaves: Lorelei, a sixteen year old German slave, will be played by Sarah Lamb. Lai, an Asian thirteen year old, will be played by Yuhui Choe. Nyura, a Russian 17 year old, will be played by Natalia Osipova, of course. Dylan, a fourteen year old boy from Wales, will be played by Vadim Muntagirov.”

These characters are so young, Lindir thinks. And from places both near and far.

“Almost done, guys. Francesca Hayward will play Felicia, a fifteen year old from the US. Nidar, a Somalian sixteen year old, will be played by Eric Underwood. And last but not least, Lauren Cuthbertson is going to play Lottie, a twelve year old from London. In reality, these slave victims can be as young as seven, or less.” For a split second, Lindir thinks he sees something…tragic…flicker behind his hazel-blue eyes, but it's gone as fast as it appeared. “But it's a little hard to de-age you all by twenty years.”

“The three, um, renters or “clients” will be played by Stephen McRae, Valentino Zucchetti, and Iana Salenko. The three assistant “rescuers” will be Thiago Soares, Nehemiah Kish, and Marianela Nunez. And I haven't completely settled on a title yet.”

He heaves a big sigh.

“There you have it. I don't have time to go through the second cast, and understudies, but Jaqueline has the copies of the list printed out and she can hand them out. Oh, and I forgot to mention, the thug who keeps all the slaves in line will be played by Gary Avis and he's going to help me with rehearsing all of you, with some assistance from Maglor. Bard and Aragorn should help keep all the choreography straight.” Chris motions to two men whom Lindir hadn't notice slipped into the studio. “Those are our notators,” Elrond explains quietly.

They both are tall, with dark, wavy hair and suntanned faces in contrast to the dancers’ pale skin. Lindir can't help but notice--it's so obvious--the way Bard scans the group until his eyes rest on the platinum head of Thranduil.

“Bard and Thranduil have been partners for almost a year now,” Elrond comments with vague amusement. Lindir nods. The passion between the two is evident, but he can't help but feel a little sorry for Meludir, pining away in vain.

“Ok, so at this point,” Chris transitions (Lindir looks at the clock, it's two), “I think we'll split into groups and just start right in on the first scene. The Corps is currently rehearsing to help create our background village festival atmosphere. I'll need Vasyklo, Yure, and Mistress Nina, that is, Lindir, Federico, and Zenaida. Maglor, if you could stay in place of Gary, that would be lovely.

“Gary will take the slaves and the buyers to the Clore Studio and get a head start on their various pas de deuxs. And Tauriel, Arwen, Lauren, Fumi, Beatriz, Carlos, and Haldir, and Matthew, Elladan, and Yasmine--go with them, since you’re all second cast. Akane, Meludir, Claire, and Galion, go with them since you’ll be their understudies.

“First and second cast “rescuers,” I think you’re all free to go to your next rehearsal now with Wayne, so scoot. And Elrond, I don’t think you’re scheduled for anything for another hour, so you can stay or go.”

Everyone goes off to their respective places in less than three minutes, leaving just Lindir, Frederico, Zen, Maglor, and Elrond, standing in the centre of the room. Lindir is glad Elrond chose to stay. Chris runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry guys. I really hate long lists like that.

“Alright. I’d like to get on with the....”swindling” scene with drunk Yure and Mistress Nina and the thug, which happens during and right after the festival dance by the corps. Lindir, for a few minutes, you will be a part of that dance, so after this, you can go to the Fonteyn Studio to learn it. Here’s how this is going to happen. It will be evening and Yure--Frederico--you will be quite drunk, but you’ve run out of money with which to buy more alcohol. I’m working with the set crew to get me a sort of run-down truck to drive onstage for Mistress Nina and her thug, with the sign “Tatiana’s Modelling Co” slung over the side. Nina and thug will approach Yure, perhaps show him examples of supposedly “their” models in magazines, and ask after his son. Yure will call him over, they’ll check him out, there will be an exchange, and Vasyklo will leave in the back of their truck. I want it to be very subtle, quick, almost commonplace, but the audience should see that there’s something elusive that’s very wrong.”

All the dancers nod sombrely. “If you don’t have any questions, we’ll start on it,” Chris says.

For the next hour, they work out blocking the scene and determining the finer details of Wheeldon's choreography. The process is wonderfully familiar yet new at the same time. Wheeldon is very kind, abnormally so in Lindir's experience. Frederico is quiet, Zenaida is…intense, perfect for the role, and Elrond. Lindir knows he is becoming dangerously attached to him. In a chair at the front of the studio, Elrond sits causally, yet...regally, quietly murmuring his thoughts whenever Chris asks him a question. He can’t help stealing little glances whenever he can, both hoping and fearing that he will catch eyes.

But there is one point where that makes Lindir dangerously close to... _something_.

The piano is playing as Zenaida, Maglor, and Frederico move through the choreography just given them. “Exactly!” Chris calls through the music. “More stooped over, Maglor, yes. Now Lindir, you break away from the group dance and answer your father’s call. Yes--oh, wait.”

The piano stops.

“That good, Lindir, all the right moves. But once you stand by Yure/Frederico, your body language has to be a bit different. Timid, apprehensive, perhaps.”

Lindir tries to shift to match that description, glancing in the mirror to inspect his position.

“Mm, better, but still--Elrond, you have experience in this, can you….”

Elrond obligingly rises and walks over and takes a second to evaluate. Lindir’s blush is spreading. Elrond walks closer. “Here,” his hand on Lindir’s shoulder. “Just...round them slightly like this.” Lindir can smell _bergamot_ and _musky chai_. “And shift your weight to one leg, yes.” Lindir’s shoulders automatically sag--probably just the way Chris wanted them to--as Elrond steps back. But a moment later, he comes closer.

“Oh. Your head.”

His warm, gentle hands cup Lindir’s near-trembling face and he tilts it slightly. Elrond’s eyes are so close to Lindir’s and he sees now that there are the tiniest flecks of gold in their depths. Now, without needing to worry about dancing as he did earlier, Lindir can bask, if only for a moment, in their shared space, the fleeting contact. Elrond gives him a quick smile, _and is that_ _fondness in his eyes?_ before he moves away. “That’s very good.” He sits back down and Lindir fight the sudden urge to run after him and grip his arm tightly, irrationally afraid of him leaving.

Then he scoffs at himself. Since when had he become so weak? But Elrond’s...what was it--surety? gentleness? love?--has a way of breaking through his carefully fortified walls. He horribly, wonderfully craves it, so unlike…what he was used to.

Chris’s voice breaks through his conflicted feelings. “That is, indeed better. Alright, let’s begin again.”

 

After that hour is up and everyone is about to part to hurry to their next rehearsal, Elrond stops him. “You did a lovely job today.” A slight, uninterpretable smile. “You are beautif--I mean, a beautiful dancer.” Lindir feels himself flush a deep pink and he murmurs his thanks, ducking his head in shyness and to hide the longing in his eyes.

And later that day, all the way home he wonders whether Elrond had meant what he originally said before he restated it it--that he thought Lindir was _beautiful_. It didn't matter, both comments caused his heart to leap with something indescribable. Either way, he is falling dangerously close to where he promised himself he would never go again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're interested, here's a clip of Sarah Lamb and Federico Bonelli dancing one of Wheeldon's pieces (plus an interview with him!). I'm pretending the music and movement comes from Wheeldon's creation in this fic ;)   
> The link: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bVPkJtiLHBQ  
> It's only 3 min. long - watch it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for your kind words! Enjoy!

_He feels himself screaming. No sound reaches his ears._

_His eyes are open. Darkness is a thick wall between him and the light._

_Icy wind is blowing. It tears through the hole in his chest._

_He’s on his knees. Blood is pooling on the ground._

_He’s gagging._ It _is in his mouth again._

_The voice in his ear and the taste in his throat make him shudder with hate and need all at once. That hand that strokes and slaps in the same minute, the awful churning in his stomach that makes him retch--yet he clings to these things with desperation. He is alone. Then, a flash of silver; that sharp pain he fears and craves parting the skin at his hip._

 

Air filled his lungs; he awakened by his own gasp. A spring in his old, worn mattress has pushed through the fabric and is scratching his hip. He scrambles off the bed, tangled in the damp sheets, and shivers in...in what?

It’s the numbness again.

Walking over to the tiny sink, he splashes cold water on his pale face and heaves a breath. In the week and a half he had been in London, the dreams had gone away. He had hoped it was sign that of beginnings, a sign that he had left his old life.

But the past is not so easy to escape.

The screen on his phone reads 5:27, He puts his pillow over the protruding spring and flops back down, frustrated with himself. It’s too early to be awake and he needs every minute of sleep for his long days at the Royal Ballet. His eyes shut resolutely but his rebellious mind wanders.

The last eleven days at the Ballet have been the hardest, yet the best of his life. He had never been so exhilarated during classes and so exhausted by night. But it was the rehearsals that made his breath disappear. Or, more specifically, it was _Elrond_. Though he wasn’t actually in the current scene Wheeldon was choreographing, somehow he managed to have his schedule arranged to be present each day, sort of as Wheeldon’s second assistant. It was yesterday, as he had caught sight of him scarfing down a salad and sandwich, that Lindir realized Elrond had been giving up his lunch hour to be free for those rehearsals. He always took time to smile and say a quiet few words to Lindir before the proceedings began.

The actual show was coming along nicely. They had almost finished with the village scene and Elrond assured him that Chris was pleased with his work. Lindir still doubted, but he gave them his best. Gave Elrond his best.

But, all the same, Lindir had learned early on that a dancer’s life, his life, was no fairytale, and he still knows it now. Some of the other dancers are not pleased that he, a mere soloist, is playing the lead role. By sheer chance, he had overheard a conversation between Valentino Zucchetti, Stephen McRae, and Oropher, who play the “clients” in the show, in the changing rooms. Hs ears had perked up when he heard his name.

“...he’s Wheeldon's pet….” From Stephen McRae.

“...follows Elrond around like an injured puppy….” Voiced in Zucchetti’s Italian accent.

“...sooner or later he will fail and someone will have to rush in to fix the mess….” Oropher’s tone was cold and threatening and scared him the most.

McRae was a Principle, Zucchetti, a First Artist, Oropher, a Principal Character Artist. All had been there longer than he, perhaps worked harder for their places then he, and felt they should fill the role Lindir had now. He could see their unspoken words, _What was Wheeldon thinking?_ in their darting looks. _And they are right_ , Lindir thinks. In the dark _aloneness_ of mornings like these, their words slash at his head over and over. It’s certainly not the worst he’s heard, though.

_His_ words return too.

_Filthy whore._

_Such a good boy._

_Weak and worthless._

_Only mine. Mine_.

Suddenly, Lindir can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand himself. He heaves himself out of the bed, trips, falls to the hard floor. Propped up against the squeaky bedframe, elbows resting on knees and head bowed, he threads his hands through his dark brown locks and clenches them into fists. _Pulls_. At the resulting pain at the roots of his hair, he inhales sharply, then exhales, sagging. Sometimes his dreams are as real as the waking world.

His eyes stray towards the bathroom, but he forces his face away with another jerk of his hair. He can’t afford that source, that outlet of...strength? Or is it weakness? Lindir can’t say.

By now, the sun is weakly beginning to filter through the one window at the end of his room. Lindir stands and moves towards it, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. A question strikes him, as they sometimes do when he’s in these moods, these moments of _rawness._

_What am I even here for?_

He stares out into the alley below him, eyes blank and empty. In truth, he doesn’t know the answer to this either.

-

Elrond watches Lindir during the _adage_ section of their daily class, again touched by how beautiful, how fragile he seems. His lithe form is as graceful as ever, but he’s...off...today. Ever since their first encounter at Tesco, he has known the young dancer to be flighty. There were shadows lying behind his lovely eyes. But, at least once a day, Elrond always managed to coax the barest of smiles from those plush lips. Today, though, Lindir's precious spirit seems so reduced, even fearful. In a few short days, Elrond has fallen for him, hard, and it makes him _ache_ to see Lindir so down.

After the class has finished, Elrond pulls Lindir aside, taking his hand with a softness that belies his long-trained strength. The touch causes Lindir to jolt like a startled hare.

“Hello Lindir.”

Lindir looks up at him and gives him a wobbly smile. Elrond is struck with the urge to wrap him up in a hug. Instead, he just says, “Thranduil, Bard, Zen, and some others of us who don’t have a show tonight are going out to eat after rehearsals today. Would you like to join me?”

It’s lovely to see Lindir’s sweet face light up in shock and happiness. “Yes...yes, that would be--I would love that. Thank you.”

Elrond gives him a soft smile. “Wonderful. The place is called The Prancing Pony, on Bree Street just a block west of here. I’ll look forward to it.” Glorfindel calls his name and he must go, but he leaves Lindir with warm feelings and a gentle squeeze to his hand.

 

The rest of that afternoon, Lindir vacillates. He’s torn between being utterly elated and hopelessly terrified. On one hand, the hope of Elrond being fond of him makes his heart tingle with something...wonderful. But, on the other hand, he’s filled with fear, doubt. This is exactly how it began not so long ago, with layers of kindness and interest wrapped around a _hateful_ core. It had shattered him in more ways than one and no one, least of all himself, could put him back together again.

_Pieces_.

Fragmented life, body, heart, soul. His thoughts, what few feelings ever flash by, are continually at war. The glue to heal that brokenness is just a dream. So he copes. Tries to.

But _Elrond._

Lindir’s _dying_ inside _._

_Can he see?_

_Does he care_?

It’s at the end of the day as Lindir ponders this. Freshly showered and changed, he slings his bag over his shoulder and stands, walking out of the changing rooms. He’s about to proceed toward the exit, but then he stops and leans against the wall in indecision. Is he making a mistake? Going out with a group--with Elrond--is like ripping a hole in his tightly held defenses and inviting risk of hurt in. His mind comes up with other (admittedly valid) excuses. His pitiful bank account will suffer. The place doesn’t seem expensive, but any meal eaten out will suck more from his budget than eating at his bedsit. It will be dark when they are done, and he will have to walk through unfamiliar London late at night. Moreover, it’s the _eating_. He doesn’t, can’t, won’t eat very much, ever, and somehow, he will have to get this past their notice.

But, all the same, maybe Elrond is real. Maybe he does truly care. A vision of his fathomless, gentle eyes flashes through Lindir’s mind. And the thought of returning to his dingy flat, to _aloneness_ , with only his mind for company compels him to push off the wall and start towards the exit.

  
The Prancing Pony isn't that hard to find. Lindir notices two motorcycles parked outside. The exterior of the building actually looks a little bit run down compared to all the modern buildings nearby, but when he steps inside, the atmosphere is warm and charmingly shabby.

He spots the platinum head of Thranduil almost immediately, seated with quite a few others at a large, round, wooden table in the back corner. All are people he at least recognizes, he sees with relief. He approaches hesitantly, still unsure, but Elrond, seated next to Thranduil, catches sight of him and waves him over.

“Hello.”

“Hello Lindir. I'm glad you came.” Elrond smiles at him and then taps Thranduil. “Budge up, you great lug, and make room for Lindir.”

Once he is seated, Elrond gives his hand a welcoming squeeze. “Did you have any trouble finding this place?” When Lindir shakes his head, Elrond says, “It's a favorite haunt of all of us. The owner, Mr. Butterbur, is friends with Gandalf, who's our co-artistic director with Kevin O’Hare. Many times we will crash here after performances or days that were just long. Butterbur is good; he keeps the media out and lets us have our way.”

Lindir had never considered that the press could possibly want to be after him.

With a bit of effort, Elrond gains everyone's attention. “Everybody. If you hadn't known already, this is Lindir, the Ballet’s new soloist and also Wheeldon's Vasyklo.” Lindir blushes under their gazes, though they are friendly. “Next to you is Thranduil and next to him is Bard, our Notator, his partner. Then that's Yuhui, and Natalia, Elrond motions to an Asian and a Russian, both petite, “and of course you’ve worked with Zenaida already as Wheeldon's “Mistress,” and next to her is Sarah and Marianela and Lauren. And there's Ed, whom Wheeldon cast as the “Master,” and next to him to my right is Erestor, my longtime friend. His partner Glorfindel is performing tonight, so he’s not with us.”

Everyone murmurs their polite “hellos.”

“I heard you just came from the Finnish National Ballet,” Ed says. Just like Erestor, he has pale, pale skin, but ginger hair instead of the other’s midnight locks. And, Lindir knew from class and just to look at him that he has impeccably incredible muscle tone that accompanies an illustrious career. Hence his awkwardness when first answering.

“Um, yes, I trained there my whole childhood and left the <em>corps</em> to come here. It's quite different…in a good way though. I like the people here. I… Well, it's been mostly wonderful so far.” He thinks of certain reasons, a certain person, that this is so, but he doesn't voice his feelings.

“Yes,” agrees Sarah, the blonde Principal with wonderfully intelligent eyes, "when I came here from the Boston Ballet in the US,it took me a while to adjust, but now I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. But I’m really happy that you’re here and I’m excited to work with you. I’m playing Lorelei the slave in Wheeldon’s piece, so we will probably be seeing a lot of each other in the next few months. I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone come from the Finnish National, but I've seen you in class and I like your style of artistry. It’s always good to have fresh talent.”

Lindir realizes she’s giving him complement with sincerity--they all seem to be genuine--and this causes him to bite his lip in embarrassment and a bit of happiness. He doesn’t notice the way Elrond’s face softens at his reaction.

“A word of advice though,” Thranduil says firmly, “don’t get a big head. There are too many dancers whose arrogance increases with ability.”

“Are you referencing yourself?” Bard asks teasingly.

“Absolutely not at all.”

Elrond gives Lindir a look and leans over to speak. “Thranduil is my dear friend and is also a very...complicated creature.” There’s an odd flash of sadness in his eyes when he says it,

Just then, the waitress comes around to pass out menus, and Lindir’s attention is diverted from the group to what he should choose to eat. He tries not to grimace at some of the heavier options and wonders if he can get away with a salad. He sucks in the corner of his lip in pensiveness. “What do you normally order?” he whispers to Elrond.

“Mm, to be honest, Butterbur’s eggplant parmesan is marvelous. I get it every time.”

“Oh. That’s Italian, right?”

“Yes, love,” Elrond says, pouring them both water.

Lindir’s mind trips over the term for a moment. He decides he will order that.

The evening passes in relative contentment for Lindir. Though he’s mostly silent, listening to the others’ lively conversations, it’s a happy silence. The evident camaraderie and familiarity within the group puts him at ease. He finds that both Yuhui and Lauren (or Loopy Loo as Ed evidently calls her), though the picture of professionalism and grace in the studio, both have a surprising streak of mischief that keeps everyone sniggering lightheartedly. Sarah, in contrast, is the longsuffering, yet wryly amused “mother hen,” solid, dependable. And Zenaida, despite her talent at playing “The Mistress,” is the kindest, most down-to-earth and encouraging figure Lindir has every met (besides Elrond, of course. Somewhere in between, Natalia seems to complete the group by bringing a carefreeness that lightens the severity of their lives. Though a veritable “prima” in countless countries, her sweet, unguarded nature counters some of Lindir’s insecurities.

The relationship between Thranduil and Bard is, indeed complicated, yet very endearing and rather entertaining. Lindir learns that Bard, before he came to work as the Ballet’s Head Notator, was married and has three children. His wife had passed away in an accident, but, in Bard’s own words, “Thranduil came along and utterly stole my heart.” They are as in love as newlyweds, yet they bicker like an old married couple.

Lindir finds that Edward, for all his stunning athleticism, is surprisingly bookish, the epitome of a quiet bachelor. For the most part, he is mild-mannered and altogether pleasantly droll, but one or twice when roused to strong opinion, his fiery redheadedness had come out in the form of witty retorts Lindir’s first impression of Erestor is that he is rather dour and a bit stuck up. Thus far, he had rarely spoken to anyone during the time except to Elrond and Edward. But, Lindir saw, as soon as Glorfindel’s name came up in conversation, he immediately perked up. Nevertheless, as the group moved on to a different subject, Erestor settled back again, face slowly morphing into its previous melancholia.

Perhaps he is not alone in his loneliness. Erestor, though, actually has someone’s absence to feel, someone to hold him.

Elrond disengages himself from the conversation and turns to Lindir just as he is thinking this. “I have not had a chance to ask you how your first two weeks or so have been.” It’s an open question that Lindir can answer any way he wants. He wavers between two options, halfway between what’s <em>polite</em> and what’s <em>true</em>. He says simply, “It’s been challenging, to be honest. But good. I like it here.” Much better than...before.

Another of Elrond’s smiles. “If you ever need anything, let me know. Anything at all.”

Lindir blushes. “Thank you.”

“Tell me more.” As always, his voice is gentle, but it’s the same voice that carries so much authority within the ranks of the dancers. He knows Lindir must be drawn out. “What do you do when you’re not dancing?”

The slight dancer blushes again. “Well, dancing is all I’ve ever known, so I’m not good at much else.” He doesn’t tell Elrond what he thinks about when he’s in the silence of his room. “I do play the kantele when I’m--” He wants to say, when I’m _feeling_. “When I don’t have anything else to do.”

“The kantele?”

“It’s a Finnish harp. I received one as a birthday gift from my parents when I was young and I’ve sort of...carried it with me through the years. It’s kept me company.” Suddenly, he speaks very openly. “There’s...I try to spend as much time at the Opera House because my bedsit is rather, um...empty Just me and my thoughts.” A quirk of a self deprecatory smile. “Although…” and he finds himself telling Elrond of a tiny plant he had found three days ago, growing in the dirt which had accumulated outside his one windowsill. Each day, he has been checking up on it, giving it a drop or two of water when it…. And then he stops, realizing how utterly pathetic he must sound.

But Elrond gently takes his hand. “That's incredible lovely of you Lindir.” Inwardly, his heart is breaking. Lindir is incredibly lovely, yet so lonely too.

  
It’s another hour before they finish up and prepare to leave, somewhat delayed by Thranduil’s insistence that he treat the group to one (“only one, we still have work tomorrow,” from Bard) quite sizeable bottle of Dorwinian. It’s not a lot, but it’s been a very long time since Lindir’s had any alcohol, so there’s a slight buzz in his ears as they stand to leave. Outside, the ladies go their separate ways. Erestor will return to the Opera House to meet Glorfindel. Lindir finds that the two motorbikes he noticed on his way in belong to Ed and Elrond. Ed says his goodbyes and zips off, and Elrond and Lindir are left standing across from each other.

“Do you have far to go, Lindir?” By now, it is dark and Elrond doesn’t fancy the idea of Lindir going alone into unfamiliar, nightlit London.

“No, only a couple blocks from here.” Lindir motions vaguely in the right direction.

“Would you like a ride? It’s no trouble, I think you would be on the way to my flat.”

Lindir considers for a moment. But he knows the alley he lives on, doesn’t want Elrond to see. See his _despondency_. “That’s alright. I should be fine. But thank you very much.” A tiny smile appears. “You’re very kind to offer and thank you for inviting me to join you.”

“Anytime, Lindir. Remember, I’m here if you need anything. And if anyone, anyone, gives you trouble tell me.” The way fire flashes briefly in his dark eyes, Lindir knows he means it.

“Ok,” he says, feeling small. Elrond steps toward him then, and for a moment, a dark memory surfaces in Lindir’s mind. But it’s only Elrond, with his wise face and gentle hands. Hands that cautiously, softly, slowly pull Lindir in for a warm hug. It’s quick, polite, but it steals Lindir’s breath away and makes him want to melt all the same.

“Goodnight, Lindir.”

They separate and and the amount of air between them seems terribly vast. He’s cold now.

“Thank you very much...Elrond. I’ll see you tomorrow.... Goodbye.” Lindir forces himself to turn away from the sheer magnitude of Elrond’s presence. Elrond watches him go fondly, ruefully, before mounting his bike and riding away. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay!

 

Lindir plods slowly back in the direction of his bedsit, feeling a strange mix of elation and disappointment. He doesn't know what he wants.

_Elrond, though._

Perhaps that isn't true; he knows what he wants. But the dark-haired, enigmatically gentle Principal is so wonderful, and Lindir feels so fragmented he doesn't know if he can be loved or even love again. He sighs, surprisingly wistful even to his own ears.

As it was so wont to do, it had rained during the time they had been in the Prancing Pony, and now there is a minefield of cold little puddles for him to avoid. He keeps his eyes on the pavement in an attempt to discern them in the semi-darkness, which deepens as he enters his alley. Perhaps this is why Lindir does not see another’s presence, watching him like a vulture from the other side of the street.

“Oi!” The drunken slurring cause Lindir to jerk his head up in alarm. The speaker was grubby, unshaven, and very meaty. There was a can of beer in his hand and two others, empty, on the ground around him.

“What's a pretty little thing like you doing out here all alone?” The man heaves his considerable bulk out of the doorway where he had been slumped and starts in the direction of Lindir.

The dancer stiffens, terror flooding his veins, and fumbles frantically with the door. A few interminable seconds later he wrenches it open and slams it shut behind him, then dashes up the stairs toward the sanctuary of his dingy bedsit. Near the final few stairs to the top, he trips in his panic and his recovering knee slams into the brutal metal of the edge of the stair, yet he hardly feels the pain. Running to and unlocking the door to his rooms, he jerks it shut once inside, not caring what the other tenants in the building will think.

Then it's silent, broken only by Lindir's harsh, desperate breathing. He leans back against his door, and as the shooting, throbbing pain in his knee registers, his body gives out and he slides slowly to the cold, hard floor, not caring about the way the rough wood scrapes his back. His head falls forward and his fingers weave through his locks once more.

 _Memories_.

Not quite the same. Close enough to trigger a signal along a much unwanted path in his neurons.

He stays there for a time, unable to move. It’s times like these that he wishes-- _no_. He can’t go there.

He sits there in the dark for an unknown amount of time, until his pounding heart slows. Fear has made his stomach churn. He knows where this will lead. As he heaves himself up and stumbles towards the bathroom, he tries to convince himself that fear is the only reason he is driven to this, but he can’t. He knows it’s his own will. The...habit...he’d begun years ago has morphed into a demon.

Reaching the toilet, he heaves, retching up his dinner. Flushes. Breathes in and out, feeling the satisfying emptiness of his stomach. Washes his hands and brushes his teeth, rinsing away the lasts tastes of bile in his mouth. He’s done this so many times before it’s become almost routine. Too much so, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He’s resisted the pull since he’d arrived in London, but...what’s done is done. What happened years ago can’t be changed and neither can the events of the last minutes.

He doesn’t allow himself to think about it, much less feel.

By now, it’s very late and all he can do is fall into his cot, still mindful of the protruding spring. He drifts off into a vacant sleep.

-

The next morning, Lindir rises at seven-thirty and reaches for his bag, pulling out a pair of his pointe shoes. He's nearly worn through all the ones left from his time at the Finnish Ballet, yet he hasn’t even begun preparing his new ones. He turns them over in his hands, feeling the satiny smoothness that covers the “box,” the wood-like surface at the end near the toes. He’d requested them in black.

A thin rug covers most of the floor in his room, but the gray-brown concrete underneath is perfect for softening his shoes. Taking hold of one, he slams the box firmly down on the unyielding surface, once, twice, three times. After a quick inspection, he repeats it. Lindir’s on his fourth round when a violent pounding on the other side of his wall behind his kitchen causes him to freeze.

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll come over and make you!” an irate woman’s voice yells.

Lindir stops. Echoes ring in his mind. He sits on the floor in heavy silence, mind whirring in a swirl of incoherent thoughts. A lifetime of them. Too much. Then he feels it, prickling behind his eyes.

 _Pieces_.

His porcelain face is expressionless, yet three tears fall. He can’t really say why. They drip off the angle of his jaw and shatter into a million fragments on the floor.

 

He arrives at Covent Garden early a short while later, put back together on the outside. The rhythmic task of sewing his pointe shoe ribbons sometimes helps with that. After entering the Opera House, he heads straight for the Mason Heathcare Suite. Elrond will be there. Once he had discovered Elrond’s usual times there, he has been going only during those periods to have his knee adjusted. And, more, to see him. The quiet moments of _just them_ before the day began are ones he treasures, even if he knows it’s only to have his knee worked on. But it’s really so much more than that.

Elrond is there with his customary greeting and that smile that Lindir so craves. Per routine, Lindir sheds his pants and jacket until he’s down to his spandex shorts and black t-shirt. Elrond is wearing his customary burgundy warm ups and royal blue shirt, drinking a bottle of water after his daily pilates routine with Edward, Erestor, and Glorfindel. As Lindir perches on the table, Elrond walks over and asks, “How are you today?”

Coming from anyone else, that question would have grated on his nerves, but he knows Elrond _cares_. “Mmm, ok.” He looks down at his left knee, at the mottled and garish bruise that had formed overnight. “I...tripped on the stairs going back to my apartment last night and banged it up a bit. I hope that won’t cause more work for you.”

Elrond gives him a soft look. “That’s why I’m here, love.”

Again, that word. _Love_. Lindir, shy, doesn’t meet the other’s eyes, but he’s dying to know whether he means it casually, or as...more. Elrond kneels down to inspect it. “Oh, yes, that looks painful, on top of everything else too. I’ll try to do some hand-on adjusting of your knee while avoiding the actual bruise. It seems to be doing well so far; everything has been mostly staying in place.”

There’s a few minutes of silence while he works. Lindir can’t help watching the way the light dances over the planes of his face and causes his dark hair to shine. But it seems to be sucked in by the dark pools of his eyes. So is Lindir.

Elrond glance up at him and inadvertently catches him staring. Sees the way he blushes and his head ducks. But not before Elrond can glimpse his look of longing. _Interesting_. To alleviate Lindir's embarrassment, he asks, “How long ago did this happen?”

Lindir sucks in a shallow breath and there's a pause. For a moment, Elrond wonders if he's inadvertently probed too much, but then he speaks. “About a year ago, last July. That is when the Finnish Ballet has their summer break. I...didn’t really have anywhere to go or anyone to visit, so I just stayed in Helsinki. Another dancer, a First Soloist who also served as our Assistant Director, also stayed for the break and he told me he was planning on practicing a role he was to play when the season began again. But several days into our time off, he asked me to come in with him and play the role of his female partner, who was away somewhere. I knew that it involved a lot of lifts and that I weighed a good fifteen pounds more her, so I was reluctant, but he was very...persuasive and I owed him. So I went. On the way into the studio, though, I noticed a sign that said parts of the building were undergoing renovations and to keep out. I mentioned this to him but he ignored it, said he had a key and that we would be fine. For the first hour and a half, everything went well, but then...I don’t know what happened. I slipped or he dropped me and I couldn’t stop myself from landing on my knee.” Lindir blinks and bites his lip. “Nothing went well after that. He threatened me if should ever tell anyone about that day and for the rest of the break, I tried to tend it and hope it would be better before we started up again. So that’s why it’s...a mess.”

All this Lindir says in a small, flat voice, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. Elrond wants to find this arse from the sweet dancer’s past and hurt him. Badly. Instead, he reaches for his hands, cradling them in his own, wishing he could do the same to his precious face. At the touch. Lindir looks at him with a little resigned smile, and the way he seems so accustomed to hurt makes Elrond ache.

“I’m so sorry Lindir. That’s horrid.” Elrond massages Lindir’s abused knee gently. “I hope I can undo the past a bit.” At this, for a second, he hears Lindir’s breath hitch, but then there’s nothing more.

  
Hours later, after class and during rehearsal with Wheeldon, Elrond sits and watches while Lindir and several others work through the beginning choreography for the first scene at the brothel, or “the Master’s house,” as Chris tactfully put it. He is thinking, but his mind isn't on the dance. Lindir’s story had intrigued and saddened him in more ways than one. He has a sickening feeling about his former Assistant Director, and his intuition is rarely incorrect. He hates to think it, but he was also wondering about Lindir’s weight. Most male dancers weigh over fifteen pounds more than their female counterparts and moreover, Lindir is in the taller side. Elrond sees him as he plays the part of Vasyklo, being thrown into the old “truck” prop by the “thug,” and again he is struck by Lindir's _fragility_. He has a feeling this role will be twistedly fitting for him.

His thoughts are interrupted as Wheeldon claps his hands once and stops everything.

“Very good everyone, I think you’ve got it all down. That concludes the village scene. Let’s just run everything from the top now. I know the corps isn’t here for the festival dance, Lindir, but just do it as if they were. Any questions before we start?”

The dancers present are Lindir, Zenaida, Gary Avis, Frederico, and several first artists playing the key villagers, one of who is Meludir. All shake their heads in answer to Chris’s question. The large plank of wood on wheels, a rudimentary prop in place of the coming truck, is wheeled back into the corner, as it should be for the start, and several other items are reset, Then the music begins.

 _This_ is why Elrond had first been attracted to dance. Not for the light grace or exacting technique or the stunning athletic feats, though they all are a part of it. It was because dance is a language of its own, with the ability to give life to _feelings_ and _stories_ and _souls_. Though mime is still used in the more classical ballets, Elrond knows that it isn't necessary for a good artist. Each turn of the head, point of the foot, rise of the arms--every _breath_ \--speaks words. Wheeldon is a master at enabling dancers to do this, and Lindir is wonderful. It was why Chris had chosen him, Elrond knew.

He watches as opening unfolds, the airy, playfulness of the festival dance, a mark of Vasyklo's innocence, and the incongruous, yet unobtrusive old truck that watches from a distance. In the music he hears the way the joy of the spring festival fades as most of the villagers grow drunk and stupid. He sees the truck, Tatiana’s Modelling Co, make its move. Two figure leave the truck, Nina and the thug, and circle the villagers, observing the young people like patient hawks. The young, ripe flesh of several who are more tipsy than the rest are gently and firmly led to the back of the truck and shut in. Vasyklo, sweet dove that he is, isn’t impaired in the least. But they want him the most.

Approaching the one they know to be his father, they bargain with inebriated old man, showing him magazines full of their “first-class models” and an ample wad of cash. Yure is about to call his son over; he doesn’t have to, for Vasyklo is running over to show him new steps he learned in his worn, yet precious pointe shoes. Yure takes him by the shoulders and spins him to face the two strangers. Vasyklo’s body language is utterly timid, and it grows apprehensive as the female foreigner takes his arm, inspects his bones, drops it, examines his mouth, inside and out, then pulls his long tunic up to his waist to eye long legs and backside, clothed in tight leggings. A nod, an exchange of many small, thin papers. Then the thug takes hold of Vasyklo and begins to lead him away. Yure turns his back on them and begins counting the bills.

Elrond is aware of Wheeldon, perched attentively next to him, murmuring his comments and narration of the story, whether to himself or to Elrond and Jacqueline, the Principal doesn’t know. “Yes, good, Zen...Frederico, jerk him away, mm, more roughly than that, and Lindir, now--panic. Through movement say, ‘What is happening? Why do you let them take me? Don’t leave! Stop, please!’ And...into the truck, doors shut. ‘ _Please, no.’”_

The last two words were whispered so softly Elrond almost misses them. Somehow he feels they were not meant for this particular story.

The “truck” is wheeled off; the music fades. A beat later, Chris inhales determinedly and stands. “Excellent, excellent work everyone. There you have it, we’ve finished the first scene. It looks wonderful, I can’t wait to put it together with the corps.” Glancing at his watch, he says, “Perfect timing. It’s lunch hour now, so go have a good break, you deserve it. I’m very pleased.” The dancers thank him, gather their things, begin to file out. Elrond watches Lindir, who’s trying not to look like he’s glancing at Elrond. There was an air about the svelte dancer that spoke of him, also, resonating with the scene. Chris taps him on the knee and diverts his attention.

“Any thoughts?”

“It’s marvelous,” Elrond assures him. “There’s nothing I would change. I can’t wait to see the rest of it.”

“Some of the villagers looked like bumbling oafs,” Jacqueline interjects. Chris, for once, pays her no mind.

“Yes...yes I think this ending will be...good.”

The way he says it gives Elrond pause. But Chris is alreading standing, gathering up his papers and thanking the pianist and notator. Elrond follows them out into the hall and out into the main area. He is glad that for once his self-arranged lunch break activities had been cancelled and settles down in one of the more quiet corners.

Elrond has much to think about.  

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my heart jump and spin!


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